And the Moon Smiled
by JamesLuver
Summary: Modern AU. But it was too late. Never mind the fact that Anna would poke and pry and extract like a surgeon in the operating theatre; the tide was too far in, and he'd been swept out on an unforgiving sea of emotions, each one raging and threatening to drown him. The words continued to spill like a tsunami, and there was nothing he could do to stop the destruction.


**A/N:** Originally written May 2018 for **Awesomegreentie's** birthday.

Based on the prompts _I just told you I liked you but now I'm shy and say "never mind, forget it" _and _"It's you. You're it. You're the one I want."_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

_And the Moon Smiled_

"I thought I might find you out here."

John turned at the sound of the sweet voice, heard over the blaring music which was loud once more now that the door had been creaked open. It was Anna, of course, who had tracked him down out here. She always seemed to have a sixth sense where he was concerned.

"Yeah, I'm here," he said, turning back so he could go back to contemplating the stars. The door shut with a slam as Anna stepped away from it, muffling the music once more. Now it was just the two of them alone with the distant bumps of the beats and the whisper of the wind through the trees and the rustling of night-time creatures somewhere out there in the dark.

"Mind if I join you?" Anna asked.

He shrugged, bringing his half-smoked cigarette up for a long drag. "Be my guest."

Her heels crunched beneath the gravel as she crossed the short distance to his side, sweeping her skirts up daintily as she came to sit beside him on the old, majestic steps.

"Thought you'd given up?" she said, sounding part amused, part disapproving.

"It's a work in progress," he muttered, throwing the fag down the steps, where it kindled sadly a few feet away. He was almost there; it was down to her that he'd decided to try and quit in the first place, for he'd seen the way that she wrinkled her nose and stepped downwind of him whenever he lit up. He did not want to do anything that might repel her, but this was one habit that he was finding rather difficult to break.

"I take it you're not enjoying it in there?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" John deadpanned, returning to contemplating the night sky above his head.

"Well, the fact that you're sitting alone on some uncomfortable stone steps rather gives the game away," she said. "Is it really so bad in there?"

He shrugged. "It's all right. Not really my cup of tea. I'm not really a fan of being penned in like a sardine in a room full of drunks."

Anna tutted sympathetically. She knew of the struggles that he'd had with alcoholism in the past, but she made no mention of them now, which he was grateful for. He did not enjoy talking about that part of his life. It was one that he would erase if he could. One of many parts. "It _was _rather warm in there. It's much nicer out here. All that dancing has taken its toll."

That was another reason why he had been reluctant to remain in that room. Anna was always the life and soul of the party, laughing and joking with her friends, but although he told himself that he enjoyed seeing her so happy—that he _wanted _to see her happy—it did not quite extend to watching her in the arms of able-bodied men who could provide things for her that he could not. He had been good friends with her for more than two years now, and during that time he had found that his feelings for her had morphed into so much more than he could ever have imagined.

In some respects, there had been an air of inevitability about it. How could there not have been? Anna was so easy to love, be that as a friend or more. She had brought sunshine back to his life, sunshine that had been missing for so long; Vera had been the storm clouds that had scudded across his blue skies and choked all the light from the world. Right from the very first moment they had met, Anna had been determined to befriend him, and had not been put off by his attempts at a polite rebuffal. Bit by bit, he'd let his guard down around her until he could truly call her his friend, but he had not been expecting to find it slipping to the point where his heart was exposed once more.

And yet it had. And there was something so dangerously terrifying about it. He was powerless to stop. Unable to erect those barriers once more. She had wriggled through the cage around his heart like a soldier might wriggle through the mud to penetrate enemy lines and take prisoners.

Her smiles lit up his whole world and hearing her full-throated laughter gave him a reason to get through the day. He lived for the moments when they might get time alone, whether that was a snatched moment huddled together in the break room during lunch, else a day spent out together at the weekend, where they might do any number of things that under ordinary circumstances he would have avoided like the plague. In such a short space of time, she had become the most important person in his life, even more so than Robert, who had been a constant in his life despite the turbulence of recent years. She was one of those rare, special people that could turn someone's whole life upside down with just a kind word.

Which was what made it so inexorable. Because he would not be the only person to notice all of her wonderful qualities. One day very soon, he was sure that she would capture the attention of some young man, perhaps even one she had danced with tonight, and he would set out to sweep her off her feet. She was not infallible, and though she had never said so to him, she surely had to be coming to the age now where she was thinking about what her future might hold. He'd never known her to have a boyfriend, and if she'd seen anyone even casually she had never said so, but he thought he knew her well enough to know that she was looking for a happy family life at some point. And she deserved that. She deserved happiness so much.

It just wouldn't be easy to watch her, not when he'd fallen for her so helplessly. Kisses, cosying up at parties like this one, a wedding invitation handed to him with a beaming smile, asking him to be godfather…

"John?"

He came back to himself with a bump, to find Anna staring at him with a frown on her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He tried a chuckle. "I'm fine."

"You sure? You don't seem it."

"No, it's just what you were saying. I wasn't really enjoying myself in there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the frivolities that were still coming loud and muffled from inside. "You know I'm a miserable arse."

"You're not," she protested. "And I have to say, I rather agree with you. It was all getting a bit much, wasn't it?"

John cocked his eyebrow at her. That was one thing he hadn't been expecting her to say; indeed, she hadn't looked at all like she was unhappy whenever he'd clapped eyes on her.

Evidently reading the expression on his face correctly, she grinned at him. "I'm a good actress when I have to be, Mr. Bates. I wouldn't want Robert and Cora to think that I wasn't enjoying myself. That would hurt their feelings. Besides, Mary is plain-speaking enough for the both of us."

John snorted. That was true enough. Mary and Anna were like chalk and cheese, and it was surprising to many that they could be such good friends. Not only was Anna several years older, she also had a sensitivity that Mary was lacking. The eldest Crawley daughter enjoyed being in the spotlight, whilst Anna was happy to support from the side-lines, making everyone else the stars of their own shows. Indeed, Anna was the only person who loyally stood by Mary through everything; even Robert and Cora had had cross words to say about their eldest child before.

"Even so," he said. "Being in there has got to be a better prospect than you being stuck out here with a grumpy arse like me. At least it's warm in there."

"I'd still rather be out here with you," she said without missing a beat. "And if I get too cold, I can always steal your jacket. Grumpy or not, you're always the perfect gentleman."

His heart leapt at her words, at her assertion that she wanted to be here with him. Still, he could not get too carried away. It wasn't fair to either of them if he did that, pining away like some foolish schoolboy getting his first rejection from the most popular girl in school. He was forty-three, for Christ's sake.

But they were feelings that he had to examine when he was alone. It was too difficult to analyse them now, when she was sitting so close to him and overpowering his every sense.

"I suppose I could give you that," he conceded. "But if I end up with a cold, I hope you'll feel guilty in your conscience."

"More like you'll get Man Flu," she teased, elbowing him lightly. "I know what blokes are like. Even ones who survived the military are prone to a bit of moping when they get ill."

"Would now be a bad time to remind you who was laid up in bed the last time they were ill?" he shot back. In all honesty, he wasn't sure if it _was _a good idea to bring up that particular reminder—not for her, but for _himself_. She'd appeared in the morning looking terrible, and when he'd looked for her at dinner he'd discovered that she'd been sent home by Elsie Hughes, her boss. The rest of the day had dragged in a bleak kind of haze without her sunny smiles to brighten the place up, and he'd resolved to drop by her flat to check on her on his way home, keen to dissolve the knot of worry in his stomach. He'd begged a hot flask of chicken soup and some crusty bread from Mrs. Patmore's, the little bistro across the road that always did a roaring trade, and had proceeded to take the whole lot to her door. She'd looked terrible, red-nosed and puffy-eyed, hair tied in a messy braid and five times wider than she usually was because of the many thick blankets that she had wrapped around her shoulders, but sickly and snotty as she was, she'd still taken his breath away.

It was the moment that it had hit him like a lethal bolt of lightning, illuminating the way and leaving him frazzled: he loved her.

That had been a year ago, and he'd still not quite come to terms with the fact. Had hoped that it was just some silly notion that he would get over and perhaps even be able to laugh about with himself in years to come; did he remember that time when he'd _actually_ thought he'd fallen for his best friend? Ah, yes, what a ridiculous time that had been…

Alas. It was far from a laughing matter.

"John?"

He snapped to attention again. "Sorry."

Anna had resumed her frowning at him, her brow creased. "I wish you'd just come out with it."

"What do you mean?"

"Whatever it is that's playing on your mind. I can hear your brain whirring from here. It's not pleasant. Is there something bothering you?"

Yes, he wanted to scream. "No," he said instead.

"You would tell me if there was, wouldn't you? Maybe there's something I can do to help."

"There's nothing you could do even if there was something bothering me," he said flatly.

"So you're admitting that there _is _something."

"Anna," he warned with a sigh, "drop it, please."

She scrunched her nose in defiance. "Why? I worry about you, you know. I just want to see you happy."

If only she knew exactly what would make him happy. He scrubbed a hand down his face, using the time to take a deep breath. Christ, he could really use another cigarette. "You've no reason to worry about me. I'm fine."

"But you're not, are you?" There was a bite of impatience in Anna's voice, something that he'd never heard before. "Something…something's changed recently, John, I can feel it." She paused a moment. He waited, his heart swooping in a sickening fashion, waited for her to continue and break down the barriers, unleash the unstoppable flood.

"I have no idea what you mean," he said staunchly.

"Don't give me that. Those are the lines you spin to the others to make them think that you've got your life in order. I hear Ethel say it a hundred times a day to disguise the fact that she's barely getting by with little Charlie to protect."

"I'm not a young single mother," he pointed out.

"Don't be pedantic. It's just an example."

"Well, I'll save you the trouble of trying to draw parallels. What could I possibly be hiding?"

"I don't know, do I? If I did, this whole conversation would be moot."

If she did, he would likely never hear from her again. Women were subjected to that all the time, weren't they? Idiot blokes who were mortally wounded because the object of their affection didn't feel the same way about them. He hoped that he didn't fall into the same category—he certainly didn't think it was his God-given right to have her love, knew for a fact that she would be far better off with someone else—but there were too many horror stories out there. He forced the best smile he could. It did not feel natural on his face, but he had to convince her.

"Anna, really, I promise you, everything's fine. You'd be the first to know if it wasn't, all right?"

"Which I know is a lie," she insisted. "I know you, John, better than you might think I do. You're always so bloody noble, trying to shield us all from what you perceive to be a world of horrors. Even Robert has said that you don't let him in to the worst of your suffering, and you went through so much together. But I can read you like a book, as well as you can read me, and I see the suffering in your eyes. All I want is the opportunity to help ease that."

"Anna—"

"I know you don't want to expose me to the worst of your demons, but I'm not a child, and I'm not weak. I can handle whatever it is. They always say that a problem shared is a problem halved."

"No—"

"Because I _do_ worry about you, you know, I'm not just saying it. You mean so much to me and the thought of you being in any kind of pain makes me feel sick to the stomach."

"Anna, please—"

"So if there's anything I can do, anything at all, all you need to do is say the word and I'll do it."

"_There's nothing you can do."_ The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, harsh and angry. Since the moment she had appeared outside, his frustrations and feelings of inadequacy had been growing and growing, culminating in this moment. Right now, he was angry. Angry at her for being unable to let a subject drop when he'd made it quite clear that he did not want to discuss it. Angry at himself for wallowing like a complete prick when he needed to get his arse in gear and accept the ways of the world.

Anna blinked at him, shocked. "What do you mean?" There was a tinge of hurt in her tone, an accusatory bite that did nothing to improve his mood. He gnashed his teeth.

"You can't just fix the world, Anna. I know that you like to think that you can, but it's not that simple. Some things are beyond your control, and there's nothing you can do to set them to rights."

"But if I just knew—"

"Has it never once crossed your mind that you're the problem?"

Anna pulled up short, fear evident in her tone now. "What? What are you talking about?"

He'd already said too much; he needed to bite his tongue and turn away, to somehow make this conversation a figment of a past that would never be remembered and would never be touched on again.

But it was too late. Never mind the fact that Anna would poke and pry and extract like a surgeon in the operating theatre; the tide was too far in, and he'd been swept out on an unforgiving sea of emotions, each one raging and threatening to drown him. The words continued to spill like a tsunami, and there was nothing he could do to stop the destruction.

"It's always been you. You're at the centre of everything, and it's driving me mad. Don't you see? I can't go a damn day without thinking about you, about how much joy you bring to me, about how I'm so desperate to be a good man for you, and I'm in despair because I know that I can never be the person that you deserve. I torture myself with the thought of you meeting someone else and I know that it's going to happen one day, and I will be happy for you when it does, but there's still nothing that terrifies me more than the thought of you falling in love with someone else, and I hate myself for it because it makes me such a selfish bastard, but there's nothing I can do to control it—"

"John—"

He ignored her, terrified of what would happen when he stopped talking. "So, fine, have it your way: there is something bothering me. You want me to say it? I'll say it. I've fallen for you and I can't get it out of my damned head even though I know it's wrong. Forgive me that I don't feel like the life and soul of the bloody party because I can't get you out of my head!"

The silence in the aftermath of his outburst was ringing; even the wind stopped blowing, as if in distress at the situation. For one whole second, it felt as if the weight that had been dragging him down to his death had been lifted.

But then reality set back in. Set back in with a crash, with the sudden closing of his throat as he realised that the most closely-guarded secret he had ever kept had come spilling out of him, paving the way for a grand explosion which would surely cause casualties. Bile clawed at his throat. No. No, this should not have happened. He'd fucked everything up, like he had done with every good thing he'd ever had.

"John."

Anna's voice was soft and tender, filled with pity. That was one thing he could not stomach. Not pity. Not from her, the one person who had never shown him any when he had limped into Downton worse for wear. The anxiety rose and rose, threatening to overwhelm him as his throat closed further. Lurching to his feet, he stumbled down a couple of steps, almost losing his footing without his cane, scrabbling uselessly in his pocket for a cigarette, anything that might help to keep him calm as he sorted through the aftermath of the mess he had made.

"John," Anna repeated, and he found that he could not bear to listen to her. He did not want to hear her bracing consolations, her futile attempts to cement over the cracks that had just fractured their relationship apart. Because that was painfully clear to him now: after this, there could be no relationship. He could not continue to be her friend, for the shame of what he had done would haunt him and make a mockery of the charade he had tried to live through; he could not bear to think that she would spend every moment with him wondering what his motivations were.

He located his lighter. It took him five attempts to light up, his hands were shaking so badly. He took a deep drag to give himself courage, turning his back on her to stare out into the endless darkness.

"Never mind, forget that I said anything," he said, his voice wavering. It was the weakest and most pointless thing he could ever have said. As if this could be forgotten about now.

He heard her clambering to her feet behind him. "And how do I do that?" she demanded, echoing his thoughts. "You don't have power over what I can and can't remember, no matter how much you might want to."

The words compelled him to spin around, injured indignation coursing through his veins, but all retorts died in his throat. In her heels, standing several steps above him, she towered above him for the first time in their friendship; the anger seemed to come off her in currents, giving her a crackling kinetic energy that he was keen to avoid. Her blue eyes flashed as she looked down on him, and her own voice shook as she spoke.

"Don't you dare," she said lowly. "Don't you dare try to dictate how this goes. You can't tell me that you have feelings for me and then demand that we forget about it as if none of it matters. This involves me too. You don't get to decide."

"I'm not saying it for that," he muttered. "Look, this whole thing is just bloody stupid." He wished that he could go back five minutes. Back to when he had been lovelorn and lonely but at least still in control of his feelings. Back to when at least Anna was oblivious.

She folded her arms across her chest and glowered at him with a fire in her eyes. He could barely keep holding her gaze, feeling strangely like a scolded schoolboy in her presence.

"You don't get to decide," she repeated. "You can't say something as momentous as all that and expect it to be brushed under the carpet. _God_, John."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising." It was a snap.

"Well, what else is there to say? I've fucked everything up."

"Stop it," she said fiercely. "That's not true."

He ran a hand through his hair and took another drag on his cigarette. "And what would you call it, then?"

"The catalyst," she said simply. It gave him reason to pause.

"What?" he said.

Anna did not move from her station above him; she seemed to realise that in this position, she had all the power, literally as well as figuratively.

"You're standing there doing what you always do, taking the blame for all the wrongs in the world," she said. "And I bet it's never even once crossed your mind that that there might be another outcome."

"I'm not following," he said stiffly, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible; the last thing he needed was to lose his Irish temper and make things even more irreparable.

"You've known me two years. And in both of those years, I've never once shown an interest in a man."

The abrupt change in tact took him by surprise. "What?"

She huffed. "Think about it logically, John. There have been opportunities for me to date someone, you know that as well as I do."

He flashed back to the way that men had clamoured around her only half an hour earlier, each one desperate to take her home. There had been a hundred nights like it in the past.

"So?" he said guardedly.

Anna almost growled. "Can you really not think why that might be?"

"Because you've not been interested in any of them," he shot back; really, that did not take a genius to work out.

But she shook her head. "It's more than that. It's always been more than that."

And then she confessed. Spoke the words that in a million years, a thousand lifetimes, he'd never, ever thought he would hear.

"The reason why should be obvious: it's you. You're it. You're the one I want."

The words seemed to take an age to process in his brain, and when they did he found that he couldn't form a sentence. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and managed to croak, "What did you just say?"

Anna had not wavered. That was the story of their relationship. Whenever things got tough, he could rely on Anna always being there, steadfast and loyal and unmoving. He'd thought for sure that this would be the thing to change that but, miraculously, she was still there, unchanged. Beautiful.

"You heard me," she said calmly. "I'm saying that I feel the same way about you."

She reciprocated. _She reciprocated_. It couldn't be real.

But it was.

"I've felt this way about you for almost two years," she told him, unabashed. "It's been as torturous for me as you say it has been for you. I was never sure whether you were flirting with me because you felt comfortable, or because you genuinely thought me attractive. I know what you went through with Vera, and so I had no idea if you would even contemplate the idea of having a relationship with someone again. You've never exactly made yourself emotionally easy to read, have you?"

Well, okay, he supposed that was a fair point. But still… "I didn't think it was possible that you'd ever find me attractive."

Anna rolled her eyes. "You can't be serious."

"It's not that ridiculous," he said defensively. "I'm fifteen years older than you. I'm hardly the kind of man someone would have as a pinup."

"That's a matter of perspective," said Anna. He repressed the urge to shake his head, even as the warm glow touched his heart. Only Anna would be able to see past his old, tired features to something worthwhile inside, something that even he struggled to see most of the time. It was a testament to what a wonderful person she was, and any man would be lucky to have her.

And somehow she wanted him.

It was as if she could read his mind, for her lips quirked up in a smile. For the first time since his outburst, she looked happier.

"Anyway, I'll admit that this has come as a relief," she said. "We're on the same page?"

If he was a better man, he'd let her loose to live her life. What could he really offer her, with the chequered past that he was forced to carry wherever he went?

But she'd just told him that she felt the same way about him. She'd made him the happiest man in the world. He'd be a fool to turn that away. He could not stop the smile that erupted across his face, so wide that it was almost painful. He threw his half-smoked cigarette aside.

"I'd say we are," he said.

"Then come up here," she said, crooking her finger at him. He was powerless to resist her, limping up the stairs until they were of the same height. Without preamble she draped her arms around his shoulders and leaned in towards him. He had a moment to register the alluring smell of her perfume and the scent of her hair before her mouth was on his, impossibly soft and sweet. She didn't seem to mind that he'd just smoked, her fingers moving up to twine through he short hairs at the back of his head.

It was the best first kiss that he'd ever had. Pulling her closer, he slid his hands around her hips and thanked his lucky stars.

He wasn't even sure how much time had passed; all he knew was her. Her mouth against his own, her soft sighs and murmurs as she pushed nearer. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on everything she was.

The door opened with a bang behind them.

"Anna, are you out here…? Oh!"

Mary's loud voice was an unexpected—and unwelcome—interruption, and Anna pulled away. John's heart lurched in his chest as he peered over Anna's shoulder to find the eldest Crawley daughter standing there with her arms folded across her chest, looking for all the world like a mother catching her daughter in the act.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" she said disapprovingly.

"Oh, go away, Mary," Anna grumbled, completely unperturbed by her friend's arrival. "What do you want?"

"Clearly nothing that's more important than this," she smirked, recovering herself. "How exciting. I thought you'd never get on with it."

Anna grinned, cheeky as ever. "Well, better late than never, as they say."

"Indeed." Mary wrinkled her nose. "Never mind. I'll just tell the others that you're walking her home, shall I, John?"

Anna giggled and answered for him. "Yes, please. Thank you, Mary. You're the best."

"Don't I know it," she muttered, and flounced away with the wounded air of someone who had witnessed the most unsavoury thing of all. Unaffected, Anna leaned against him, pressing her lips to his cheek.

"You heard her, Mr. Bates," she whispered. "Walk me home."

He was happy to oblige.


End file.
